


Switching Glitches

by brightwhiteparabolas



Series: Alfred Pennyworth's Bookmarks (All Rights Reserved by the T. and M. Wayne Foundation) [5]
Category: Super Sons (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Accidents, Allergies, Alternate Universe, Cake, Cute Kids, Family Fluff, Gen, Ghosts, Jason Todd is a little shit, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-23 22:37:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21327811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightwhiteparabolas/pseuds/brightwhiteparabolas
Summary: It's a Super Sons kid-swap, and it goes badly wrong.
Relationships: Jonathan Samuel Kent & Damian Wayne
Series: Alfred Pennyworth's Bookmarks (All Rights Reserved by the T. and M. Wayne Foundation) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1557265
Comments: 4
Kudos: 89





	Switching Glitches

**Author's Note:**

> Since I do not want to expose anyone to mindless fluff without warnings:
> 
> 1\. The Batcow is retconned.
> 
> 2\. Jean Paul Valley is retconned and also a terrible driver.
> 
> 3\. Jason has red hair.
> 
> 4\. Richard Grayson is consistently referred to as such.
> 
> 5\. Parenting is unorthodox.
> 
> 6\. The first floor in the US is the ground floor in the UK.
> 
> The story takes place roughly between the time of Jon and Dami's spat in the Batcave and the formation proper of Super Sons, not that this AU ever respects cannon timeframes.

**1**

“Damian,” said Lois. “You need to put that back in the fridge. Now.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so, Damian.”

Lois’ patience was wearing as thin as her old grey cotton bathrobe. The kid was small for his age with a tiny straight nose and thick, long eyelashes but he was also an assassin and a devil’s brat and a sheet cake thief. It was lucky that the Kent’s house was so small that Lois had heard him fumbling around downstairs in the kitchen at night. Nothing to do with clumsiness, she thought, as she gritted her teeth - he moved as beautifully as any of Bruce’s dratted kids - but presumably because he lived in a mansion and had no idea how anything worked in a normal kitchen.

Fucking Talia al-Ghul, dumping the kid on Bruce once the damage was already done. 

“But I want to eat the cake, Lois.”

“Jon doesn’t get up in the middle of the night to eat cake.”

Damian scowled. “Jon has superpowers. I'm different, and I want cake.”

“Damian honey, I need that cake tomorrow for a baby shower at work. I made it specially.Okay?”

“No,” said Damian.

“Clark,” yelled Lois. “CLARK!”

In a few seconds, it was over. Lois found herself staring up from the kitchen floor at her small tormentor, a dishcloth in her mouth and her wrists and ankles bound to an Ikea barstool with the belt of her own dressing gown. The grandson of Ra’as al-Ghul was frighteningly adept at what he did.

“ Only until I finish,” said Damian.

His voice was muffled as he scooped large handfuls of white chocolate sheet cake into his mouth.

The kitchen doors swung open, and Lois heard Damian hiss something incomprehensible and profane-sounding. She saw her husband’s bare feet padding over tiles in the semi-darkness of the kitchen.

Poor Clark. So tired still from all that business with Darkseid last week, and now this stupid idea of Bruce’s that the boys should spend a week in each other’s houses to get to understand each other better after their big fight in the Batcave.Did two bickering kids really matter that much? Why couldn’t Bruce just pick up and fight evil from some billionaire-friendly haven like the Cayman Islands? The man was so out of touch sometimes.

**2**

“This house is not cosy,” declared Jon Kent. He was sitting on the bed watching Alfred Pennyworth putting out a set of beautifully ironed clothes for him to wear the next day. My Mom never does that, he thought.

“Wayne Manor is a very old house, Master Jon. Old to the extent that any buildings in this country are old.” Alfred allowed himself a small chuckle.

“Why does Damian need such a big bedroom, Alfred? He doesn’t even have toys here.”

“This is not his usual bedroom, but he sometimes likes the Batcow to sleep here. His other bedroom is rather crowded with weapons, so we thought you would like this one better.”

“Ugh. The Batcow _smells_.”

Alfred turned his back to Jon and bit his lip. He watched the child’s face in a long, gilded eighteenth-century mirror to which Damian had stuck several Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle stickers.

“Will you be rising at four like Master Damian?”

In the mirror, Jon’s mouth fell open and his big blue eyes opened so wide that Alfred thought they might pop out.

“Damian gets up at four in the morning?”

“On most days, yes. He trains regularly before the school day starts.”

Jon sighed. “I suppose I should do whatever Uncle Bruce wants me to. I might not be any good, though. Dad says I can’t really train until I’m older. Because, because, I’m …”

“That’s alright. We understand that you have certain abilities. Mr. Wayne will know what to do. Now have your cup of milk and then you can brush your teeth.”

**3**

“I’m not having anything to do with it,” said Richard.“It’s mean.”

They were at the back of the Batcave, in a large concrete-covered area that had been fitted out as a state-of-the-art garage. Richard was flat on his back with most of his body under a monstrous, gleaming vehicle.

“Suit yourself.” Jason grinned. “The kid says he won’t use his powers here, so I'm gonna make him.”

“Bruce won’t like it."

“Well, who’s telling?”

Richard grunted and slid further under the Batmobile.He had a lot on his mind, and the welfare of a nervous nine-year old was not exactly a priority for him at the moment. It looked like Jean Paul had scraped the undercarriage badly last night. This particular car should be out of commission for now.

"Gearhead," Jason said cheerfully. He walked over to a small sink in the wall and started to wash up for supper. Richard was way too serious sometimes.

**4**

Jon didn’t want to turn the light off.This house was weird and much too big.This bed was weird and much too big.Did the other boys like living here?He wanted to go home.No wonder Damian always seemed to be in a bad mood if he had to get up at four o’clock every day.

There was a tap on the door, and a ruffled head of red hair appeared followed by a serious face and a skinny body in too-big pajamas.

“I was checking to see if you were alright,” said Jason. His eyes were round and concerned, and Jon noticed toothpaste on the front of his pajamas.

“I’m alright,” said Jon.

“Did Alfred tell you about the ghost?”

“What ghost?”

Jason could be an excellent actor when he wanted to be.

“The ghost of Wayne Manor. I guess he didn’t want to scare you. Just pretend I didn’t say anything, okay?”

**5**

Damian was vomiting. He was white beneath his light tan-colored skin, and his knees were buckling against the front of the cupboard that contained the smaller of the kitchen's two garbage cans. Clark stood next to him and the sink with a concerned expression on his face. All the lights in the kitchen were on now, and the floor was covered with crumpled paper towels, although Lois had given up on cleaning for the time being. The smell of disinfectant was in the air.

"He should be in hospital," said Lois. "He's already pretty dehydrated. It must be some weird allergy."

"Ninja assassins do not go to hospital," said Damian. He looked up from the sink and glared, then bent over it again.

Lois ignored him. "If we call 911, we'll have the gutter press all over us. Bruce will love that. So why don't you fly him there?"

"Fly him?"

"Metropolis General has a huge roof, and no-one will see you if you avoid avoid the lights as you come in."

"What am I supposed to tell them?"

"They've seen you bringing people in before in that get-up, Clark. You'll say it's some unspecified, severe reaction to sheet cake, probably caused by prolonged exposure to Lazarus pits. We can leave a message for Talia to ask if she knows anything, and I'll also call Alfred."

Lois hated speaking to Bruce.

**6**

"Is it always this cold when you fly?" Damian asked. His voice was as weak as a thread of gossamer, but still sounded displeased.

"High altitude," Clark answered. "The cape will help, don't worry. It's designed with that in mind, among other things." 

He wanted to be comforting, but he was worried. It wouldn't look good if Bruce Wayne's only biological son expired in his company on the way to hospital. That possibility had not occurred to Lois when she had come up with her suggestion. She was always so action-oriented.

"We cannot be at very high altitude," he heard from inside a fold of the shimmering red fabric. "I can still breathe." Then Damian vomited once more. 

How much cake had he put away? Clark was impressed. Maybe that was what happened when you were brought up by a bunch of highly-focused assassins. Talia probably hadn't been much into baking. They should really get Damian to come round more often to catch up on lost time.

The lights of Metropolis General loomed ahead of them.

**7**

Jason Todd was a resourceful boy.

He had learned to be resourceful dodging grasping alcoholics and addicts on the nod or foraging for food and car parts to lift on the streets of Gotham. Re-purposing a kitchen trolley would be fun and easy in comparison. He had already hidden some scraps of sandpaper in his pajama pockets to create enhanced sound effects in support of his plan. Those had been snatched from Richard's toolbox just before suppertime.

Jason frequently struggled to focus on tasks that required patience or deliberation. Luckily, this was not one of those occasions. He wheeled the trolley along the first floor of Wayne Manor with great care, maneuvering it into a small, rarely-used elevator towards the rear of the house. The elevator had a metal grill for a door and creaked because of its age, which would make this the trickiest part of the operation.

The rest of what he had to do was simple once he reached the third floor. Sandpaper, right side down, went around each wheel of the trolley, secured in place with generous amounts of dental floss. His bed sheets came off and were draped in the form of a high, sloping tent over the trolley with the help of a telescopic shower pole. Bathrooms were amazing places if you thought about it, Jason mused. They really had almost everything you needed, if you were ready to work a bit smart.

He stood back and looked at his work. He grinned. The ghost of Wayne Manor was ready to roll. Or glide. This was going to be awesome.

He positioned himself in the middle tier of the trolley to protect himself from the effects of any random heat vision rays, and pushed off through the bedroom room. Jon wasn't old enough anyway to produce more than a lower-level Class 2 laser anyway, he had said over supper. That didn't really burn. It could only break stuff.

8

“I will continue to be vegetarian”, said Damian. He was sitting up in bed, arms folded across his chest. Some of the color had come back into his face, but he was still attached to a drip. “Protein is derived from sources other than meat, and I am sure it is possible to make desserts that do not contain eggs like that cake."

Bruce Wayne sat on the end of the bed. An immunology report was in his right hand together with a thick print-out of Damian's blood work-up. He sighed, and decided to focus for now on his son's behavioral shortcomings rather than his unusual dietary preferences.

”Did you ask for permission to eat the cake, let alone discuss its ingredients with Lois?"

“It would not have been granted.”

””Too right it wouldn't have been granted,” muttered Lois. She had driven to Metropolis General as fast as she could in Clark's wake, more worried about Damian than she cared to admit. She had been unable to reach either Alfred or Talia, not that Talia was ever possible to reach directly.

“Leave this to Bruce,” Clark whispered in her ear. He squeezed Lois’ arm. “The kid is going to get it, believe me.”

”Didn’t the League of Assassins teach you anything about consuming substances of unknown origin?"

Lois stiffened, but Damian had already dropped his eyes.

“That cake could have been poison or a bomb. Did you test it for Smylex? For traces of fear toxin?”

”No, Father.”

”Did you examine it under a microscope? Were you even sure that the Kent's fridge wasn't some kind of concealed time or space transport pod? Do you know how many times General Zod has tried to wipe Clark off the face of this planet?"

”No.”

”Then perhaps you were lucky that you only had a severe allergic reaction. Ask for permission before you raid the Kent's fridge next time. And I hope that you thanked Clark properly for flying you here."

"Thank you, Clark," said Damian. His voice was subdued.

Bruce sighed again, and reached into an interior pocket of his jacket. His phone was vibrating horribly, and he already knew that it was Alfred. A quick glance at the screen told him everything that he needed to know. He turned to Lois and Clark, his face as impassive as it almost always was.

"Everything is fine," he said. "Jon's below in ER with Alfred getting some stitches. He's had a small accident back at the Manor. It's all good, but they're insisting on keeping him for overnight observation because they've never seen his blood type before."

Clark murmured something frantic. He lived in fear of Jon being institutionalized or hauled off for examination to the Alexander Luthor Institute for Advanced Brain Studies.

The doors of the ward swung open.

"Mom," shouted Jon. He sat bolt upright on the gantry with such force that the IV cannula flew out of his hand and embedded itself in the wall to his left.

**9**

The wind sighed outside the bedroom window. Maybe sleeping with a cow in the room was a good idea after all, thought Jon. Cows were smelly, but they were not spooky animals. The wind sounded spooky and so did that funny creaking noise outside in the hall. Ghosts weren't real, he told himself. The ghost of Wayne Manor was probably just a stupid story from a long time ago like most ghost stories.

The wind died down, and the huge, beautiful old house was peaceful. Jon decided to turn off the small light next to his bed. It was stupid to try to stay up all night. Besides, the room wasn't entirely dark. Moonlight filtered in through the window and glanced off the long, gold-framed mirror to which Damian had stuck all those Ninja Turtle stickers. He smiled to himself. He liked the stickers. They were one of the friendliest things about the room.

There was that funny creaking noise outside again. He didn't like it. He reached towards the cord of the small bedside light again and pulled, but nothing happened. The creaking grew louder. it was accompanied now by horrible scraping, like the nails of a monster on an enormous chalkboard. Jon pulled again, and still nothing happened. 

A sad, moaning sound started up, accompanied by soft rustling. He saw the door to his room opening in the silver moonlight, and a diaphanous white shape glide towards him. He was too terrified to notice that it teetered from side to side owing to a slight misalignment of the kitchen trolley's wheels. Jason was laughing so hard that he had to stuff one of his hands in his mouth for a moment.

"There is nowhere to fly," Jon heard the apparition say in a hollow voice.

"I can't really fly yet anyway," Jon blurted out. He had jumped out of bed and was looking for the room's main light switch, but the apparition was in his way. It emitted a tremendous, gusty sigh.

"You will be reduced to a shadow," said the apparition. "And your powers will be sucked out of you, oh half-son of Krypton. " Jason had chosen several ominous-sounding phrases earlier. 

"I don't think so," said Jon. He removed his glasses and let loose.

A few seconds later, a tremendous crash, several loud screams and the sound of shattering glass resonated through the third floor of Wayne Manor. An alarm went off, and feet ran down the hall towards Jon's room. The room was flooded again with light. Alfred stood there in his dressing gown, Richard Grayson next to him. Richard's face was furious.

"You little shit, Jason" he said. "I almost fell downstairs when the lights went off. What did you do to the third floor fuse box?"

"Flipped a couple of switches," said Jason blithely.

The floor was covered in glass from the beautiful old mirror, and Jon was bleeding profusely from several deep cuts on his arms. His eyes were still pulsing slightly red, and his face was was shocked. Fragments of a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sticker hung from the collar of his pajamas.

"You little shit," said Richard again.

"You should've seen that heat vision," Jason said. He shook his head in awe. "It's so strong it makes stuff rebound on him."

**10**

Clark's face looked like it was about to collapse with relief.

"I think they'll buy it," said Bruce. "The story is that your son is descended from a secretive Amazonian tribe with ultra-rare Type C blood. He should be out by tomorrow. So should Damian."

"Thank God for that."

It was almost four o'clock in the morning by now, and somewhere, not so far away in Gotham City, Jean Paul Valley was almost finished his patrol. He had managed not to scrape the undercarriage or even the paintwork of the Batmobile this time. Richard Grayson was muttering curses under his breath and re-checking the fuse box that Jason had tampered with. It had somehow interfered with the sound system in his room. Alfred was back in Wayne Manor, making emergency early-morning phone calls to every reputable nearby bakery. A white chocolate sheet cake had to somehow be procured before two p.m. that afternoon and delivered to the Daily Planet's offices in Metropolis. 

On the pediatric ward of Metropolis General, Lois was dozing off in an armchair several feet away from her son and Damian Wayne. The two boys were wide awake and restless.

"I vomited twice into your father's cape on the way to the hospital," said Damian. "I enjoyed that greatly."

"I don't like your house," said Jon. "Except for all the cool stuff in the basement."

"It is not the basement. It is the Batcave. I don't like your house either. Except for the cake."

"My house is much better than yours."

"My house is several thousand times the size of yours. Without including the grounds."

Lois, struggling to open her eyes, was greeted by the sight of her son pummeling Damian's legs with a hospital pillow. Damian was returning the favor with vigor. They were at least avoiding one another's IV tubing, she noted. Good. The nurses could deal with everything else. She shut her eyes and went back to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I try not to hate myself for spewing out fluff like one of those cotton candy machines. It's blowing off steam and working on skills in a micro kind of way. If anyone likes it, that's awesome and unexpected.
> 
> I apologize again for references to Richard Grayson, but I just cannot write about Dicks without ejaculating mouth-coffee all over my laptop since no Richards I know call themselves 'Dick'.


End file.
